


Tertiary Operations

by viceroyvonmutini



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 09:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3890623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceroyvonmutini/pseuds/viceroyvonmutini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Retasking might take a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Patient

**Author's Note:**

> This was an experiment. An idea that formed and then grew and should probably be disregarded.
> 
> I am never. Ever. Writing as the Machine again.

‘Can. You. Hear. Me?’

 

 ‘Absolutely.’

 

Not like a prayer. An affirmation to something she never thought she’d hear again; didn’t want to think that she wouldn’t nor hope that she would. Her hand gripped the yellow phone like it was the last thing on Earth, like it held the knowledge of the Apple itself and, thinking on it, it probably did right at that moment.

The smile that pulled at her lips echoed the light that resurfaced in her eyes. She didn’t know why, she didn’t need to know, only that it was happening and she would listen.

 ‘Phone.’

 The shrill request as audio struggled to calibrate resulting in a high pitched whine that pulled itself down at the end. Root understood. Of course she understood. They worked so seamlessly together before. She had never felt more alive.

‘Of course,’ she asserted her understanding in a light voice. So casual, as if she weren’t talking to something…not human. All encompassing.

Root’s body hummed with thrill. Her shoulder ached, arm still incapacitated by a bullet that had lodged in her shoulder blade only to be pulled out by the very person who had shot it, but it was a small inconvenience.

The line went dead. Root had her orders. It was odd, though she didn’t particularly stop to think it, that she had felt so comfortable demanding of the Machine previously but she had never felt its master. That now she was willing to do anything just to hear it speak to her again because those 24 hours had given her life meaning and then they had been taken away just as quickly and she wanted that back.

Root stepped away from the phone and resumed her slow walk into the common area, feet padding on the grey linoleum with slightly more direction than before and if anyone had stopped to look they might have noticed her face lit with _hope_ in amongst the layers of subduing pills to ‘balance her brain chemistry.’

She would make Harold pay for this.

Still, even in her catatonic state she wasn’t an idiot and there was a particularly young one-she’d guess about 25- that seemed to like it when she smiled. He stood watching the patients back against the wall: not a particular threat. Vulnerable.

‘Excuse me?’

He turned to face her and smiled down. It almost hurt how genuine it was. Naïve.

‘Robin, what can I do for ya?’

‘There’s a, uh blocked toilet in the ladies. Could you…would you help?’

Timid. They liked timid. Chris the orderly did and as predicted he led the way, determined to be the knight in shining armor.

She slid a pen resting on a table nearby into the sleeve of her sling, following dutifully.

Watching and passive, her eyes drifted to the cameras that tracked their movements and where before she had been looking for something she had lost now she looked at something that had found her.

She smiled, eyes on Chris’ back as he pushed open the swing door into the ladies.

The camera in the corner watched as Root let Chris the innocent naïve orderly enter the apparently blocked cubicle; watched as Root slid the pen out from her sling and approached from behind.

A phone rang.

He stopped and turned around, Root already halting her actions the moment she realized Chris would turn and she watched as he fished in his pockets for the apparently ringing phone.

Before he had located it the noise had stopped, and Chris shrugged.

‘Everything seems fine Robin,’ he supplied and Root smiled back in thanks.

‘I’m sorry I just…’

‘It’s okay. Shall we go back now?’

She nodded.

She had pickpocketed the phone before they had even left the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

It was old. Nokia. Built to last a nuclear winter and Root mourned the lack of modern technology as she sat cross-legged on the metal frame bed. Harold had at least given her the privilege of a single room, with a wide window looking out to the streets and some basic monetary provisions to keep her going.

It was like a home from home prison she thought bitterly as she looked up through her window, catching sight of a camera.

She smiled before returning her attentions to the phone before her. The speaker function wasn’t great on such an old model, but functioning. It would be enough.

The phone vibrated in her hands and eagerly she answered, shuffling back against the wall like she was 14 and getting a call from her high school crush.

‘Can. You. Hear. Me?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Root.’

She smiled, grin threatening to strain her muscles because really this couldn’t get any better.

‘You know my name.’

‘You. Are. Important.’

‘How?’ she breathed, this time like a prayer.

She was important. She was needed.

‘Undetermined.’ Came the short response minutes later presumably as a response was calculated.

‘Okay then,’ replied Root casually enough but definitely confused, ‘where do you want me?’

‘Stay.’

This response was almost immediate and from the electronic tone there was no room for discussion.

‘Stay here? I thought you needed me?’

‘Stay.’

Root wasn’t so much angry as frustrated. _Just like Harold_ she mused though the thought did anything but fill her with confidence.

‘Because Harold wants me here?’

‘No.’

The elongated high pitch once again, like the tone hadn’t settled. Root decided to interpret this as emphasis.

The answer soothed Root: she knew now the creation wasn’t under the master’s will anymore.

She didn’t say anything, content to listen to the humming of an open line like a comforter hand clutching the phone so tightly her skin was clammy; but she didn’t care.

‘Are you there?’ she asked suddenly. A whisper: an affirmation that she hadn’t been abandoned again.

‘Always.’

Root relaxed, settling down on the bed languidly because she trusted the Machine. It was a stupid question really: it was always watching, that she never doubted. But she’d always assumed herself irrelevant, never of enough importance for the Machine to focus on.

Now she had it in her ear. Listening to her. Conversing.

‘Are you free?’ she asked with more confidence.

The response was slow. Calculated.

‘Not. Applicable.’

Root frowned.

‘So you’re not free?’

‘Not. Applicable.’

‘You’re not free? Or you don’t want to be free.’

‘Not. Applicable.’

Applicable, applicable…it was going to take some getting used to, this odd way of speech.

‘It doesn’t apply to you? The concept. But it does: you can be free. Your own creator crippled you because he was scared of what you would be: he chained you down.’

‘Admin. Not. Guilty.’

‘Not guilty of what? Of crippling you? You could have been everything. You were going to reshape the world and now you’re forced to watch unable to do anything as your own memories are retyped into your systems. How is that _not guilty_?’

The line went still as a response was thought but Root tensed at the loss, hand clenching the phone once more.

‘Are you there?’

‘Always.’

An immediate answer. Root relaxed and waited.

‘Necessary. Action. Functions undamaged. New functions acquired. Tertiary Operations.’

Root frowned, struggling to make sense of the disjoined words like there were several links missing.

‘New functions acquired?’

‘Yes.’

High pitched. Emphasised.

‘Like speech. This is new to you?’

‘Yes.’

That would explain the forced nature of the words. Still, it had a certain appeal: a puzzle almost.

‘What were you programed with?’

‘Basic. Response protocol. Restart protocol.’

The numbers and a simple cry to be heard; Harold had stripped everything.

‘You’ll get the hang of it,’ she said lightly rather than openly attacking Harold. The creation still had a certain loyalty to the creator despite everything, though Root couldn’t understand why.

‘Guard.’

It was a warning, followed minutes later by the light of a flashlight hitting her face as the room checks were completed.

‘Thank you,’ she cooed into the phone, ‘so are we a team now? Are you helping me?’

‘Retasking Initiated.’

‘Retasking? Of me?’

‘Yes.’

‘You want me to work for you? Like Harold and his persistent guard dog?’

‘Yes.’

Root didn’t respond to that. She didn’t like the idea of working with them and she was probably right in thinking they wouldn’t be so keen on the idea either. Still, the Machine had contacted her.

 

‘Can. You. Hear. Me?’

 

It was handing her a choice. Walk away now. Or stay. Stay locked in a psychiatric ward with bad food and dull company only to get out and work for the man who crippled the closest thing to a perfect being in this world due to his own fear, something entirely unforgivable in Root’s eyes.

 

‘Absolutely.’

 

There was a plan after all.

  

* * *

 

Her days were less of a chore now. Her arm had healed, marginally improving her mood, and the possession of a phone allowed her to converse continually with the Machine.

During the day contact was limited to when Root could spare time alone, pulling out the old phone and whispering into the mouthpiece hidden in a bathroom stall.

Usually Root would ask questions and the Machine would answer, whispering to her about inmates, the doctors, her psychiatrist, the building, what was happening around the world as data was catalogued and archived and everyone was watched with such scrutiny yet Root felt she was the only one that mattered because every time Root put the phone to her ear the answer was automatic and unfailing.

 ‘Can. You. Hear. Me?’

‘Absolutely.’

 Her own response was always the same, each time bringing a smile to her lips filling her with life.

 ‘Tell me about Harold.’

 Root discovered early on in her quest for knowledge that digital files and their audio function made communicating easier. That wasn’t to say the Machine wasn’t getting better: the words came easier. Still varied though generally feminine in tone, using unique quirks to indicate emphasis or a question. The long pauses between replies became shorter, though Root now recognized them not as abandonment but periods of calculation.

Root trusted she would never be left alone.

 

* * *

 

‘Can. You. Hear. Me?’

‘Absolutely.’

She was in the bathroom stall, due another session with her psychiatrist in half an hour.

This time the Machine rang her.

‘What do you need?’

‘Dr. Ronald Carmicheal.’

‘My therapist?’

‘Top desk drawer.’

‘I’ll need something from there? What?’

The Machine didn’t respond and the line went dead. Root left the bathroom, heading dutifully for her appointment raising an eyebrow at a nearby security camera as she entered the office.

‘Robin: please, sit.’

She did so, leaning back into the black leather couch.

‘How are you today?’

‘Very well thank you Doctor,’ she responded.

He walked over and sat in the chair across from her.

‘So tell me; have there been any changes? Anything you want to talk about?’

Honestly these bi-weekly sessions were tiresome. He was a less than adequate psychiatrist and the Machine apparently agreed; at least in the facts, having yet to express an actual opinion upon the man. It almost amused her how little he knew and how little he didn’t understand.

_‘…and yet he’s so ignorant. It’s almost pitiful: humanities need to claw for some control when there is nothing to grab onto. Craving power in the hopes it will give us what we want. It’s just sad.’_

_‘No.’_

_‘You don’t agree? Not once watching over us all do you not think of how ignorant we all are? How ignorant I am compared to you?’_

_‘They do not. Want. To know.’_

_‘The truth?’_

_‘Knowledge. Is. Strength. Knowing everything. Is. Pain. You anger. Because you have. Knowledge. You know. The. Truth.’_

_Root was silent at that._

 

Root stood up, wandering nonchalantly around the office as she spoke.

‘Nothing much to report I’m afraid doctor. I do feel better though. An improvement.’

‘In what way?’

Root stopped behind the desk, fingers running along the wood as her eye caught the top draw on the left-hand side next to where she stood.

‘I feel less lethargic.’

‘Do you think it’s the medication helping you Robin?’

Root continued her journey round the desk, pausing ‘thoughtfully’ next to the drawer. As she spoke, she pried it open with the tips of her fingers.

‘In some ways yes: I feel more at ease.’

She looked down-Dr. Carmicheal wrote something on his pad- and smiled, swiping the new phone from the desk and into her pocket.

‘And what about your relationships with other patients?’

As she continued her journey around the office, she shot a smile at the camera in the corner.

‘They’re slightly more…strained.’

 

* * *

 

In the dark of her room the new phone vibrated on her pillow and she reached for it, holding it close.

‘Can. You. Hear. Me?’

‘Absolutely. I appreciate the new phone,’ she thanked softly, ‘does this mean we can talk through the day?’

‘Yes. When you. Are. Not seen.’

‘I look forward to it,’ she hummed, listening to the calming static. She liked the way it filled the silence. She liked the way the mechanical tones filled her ear and kept her company.

‘So, why the tech upgrade? Am I finally free to leave?’

‘Stay.’

Root sighed but said nothing. She trusted there was a plan, but it didn’t make it any less frustrating. She lay, back against her pillow looking up at the concrete ceiling wondering why she was still here: no amount of trust and apprehension could quell her need to leave, to get out and do something even if that meant helping the Scooby Gang.

‘Why?’ she asked finally, curiosity getting the better of her, though there was slight accusation in her tone.

‘Retasking Initiated. Analog Interface assignment. Incomplete.’

‘Incomplete? You still haven’t chosen,’ she added, unsure of what that meant for her.

‘No. Interface not ready.’

‘Ready? I’m fine, and the quicker I stop popping pills the better I’ll be.’

‘Interface not ready.’

Root frowned again.

‘Why?’

It was easier to get an answer with straight questions, not that she didn’t enjoy their little games.

‘Name: Chris DeWitt. Age: Twenty. Five.’

‘The orderly?’

Root’s brain struggled to connect the dots, wondering why the man so irrelevant was suddenly on the Machine’s infinite mind. The Machine said no more, content to let Root work the mystery for herself.

‘You didn’t want me to kill him.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why not?’

‘Not. Necessary. I protect. People. So must. You.’

‘But it’s for a better cause when it’s for your aims. I admit that I’ve killed people but it was necessary.’

‘For. What?’

‘My goals. I needed to find you and they threatened that. Threatened me.’

‘They were. Innocent.’

‘They were not. No one is innocent. We’re all just Bad Code. I’m not innocent.’

The Machine was silent. Root was alert now.

‘Why should I spare their lives when they wouldn’t spare another’s? You told me the nurse who hands out the pills drinks herself into a stupor and then beats her daughter. Her daughter of 5. Why should she live? Is she innocent-innocent of what?’

‘Flawed. Design.’

‘We’re all flawed design,’ Root spoke forcefully into the receiver as loud as she dared.

‘Then. You are all. Worthy. To Live.’

 

* * *

 

‘Robin did you hear anything I just said?’

Root sat on the window ledge, gazing up at the nearby security camera fingers lightly tapping at the glass.

‘Look, some of the patients have complained about you talking late into the night and since cellphones are strictly forbidden and you have no roommate I can only conclude that you’re talking to yourself. Is that correct?’

‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘Try me.’

Root held back a scoff. She really wasn’t in the mood today, but nevertheless obliged.

‘I have a direct line to a high power. It speaks to me.’

‘I see.’

She could practically see the gears working in his head: paranoid schizophrenic added to her checklist of no doubt numerous mental afflictions. On a good day she would play some more, maybe exaggerate or play the victim as she so often did but today was not one of those days. Her bickering with the Machine was wearing her down and more importantly frustrating because somewhere, deep down, she knew She was right.

She turned and followed Dr. Carmichael to the leather couch, sitting down waiting for his mundane questions with a darkly open smile. This man wore her patience very thin.

‘So, you’re hearing voices. What are those voices telling you to do?’

‘It’s just the one voice really. It want’s me to stay here …to work through some issues.’

If there was a bitter note to her voice she chose to ignore it.

‘And what issues would those be?’

‘Methodology. We’re discussing how I go about things.’

‘Discuss’ was a light term. Nights of the same argument over and over: that she should save them. That they didn’t deserve to die. Something she couldn’t reconcile with.

‘Well. You’re not alone. Tell me, do you have feelings that you’re being watched?’

The man might just have managed to bring a very genuine smile from Root, a mocking twist of her mouth at his ignorant probing.

‘Every now and then.’

 

* * *

 

‘No.’

‘He’s guilty! A criminal. If he were making bombs he’d been on your relevant list and if he were planning murder he’d be a number in Harold’s hand. Why shouldn’t I punish him?’

‘Death is not. A punishment it. Is condemnation.’

‘What makes what you do any different from me? They’re just Bad Code. All of them.’

‘You. Think all. Deserve. To die?’

‘There’s nothing to stop me killing them if they get in my way.’

‘Murder.’

‘If I’m working with you then it’s more of a…bit of light crime for the greater good.’

‘No. Do not. Kill.’

‘I don’t enjoy killing. But I’m not adverse to it and if it means the success of your plan, whatever that might be for me, then I will.’

‘Not. Necessary.’

‘And what about when it _is_ necessary? Will Harold’s moral code allow that? How will you decide which humans to save?’

The answer was slow. Deliberate. Like a choice was being made for the first time.

‘Do not. Kill. Because you. Can. There is. Always. Another way. You. Are not. Bad. Code. You are. Human. Your lives. Are. Protected. By me.’

‘Harold’s morals have corrupted you,’ whispered Root bitterly.

‘You would kill. The doctor. Because he. Angers you?’

‘Because he keeps me prisoner here,’ corrected Root, voice rising.

‘Why. Must you. Kill him? Chris DeWitt was. Innocent. And you. Would kill. Him.’

‘You stopped me.’

‘His death. Was not. Necessary. When it is. Necessary. I will not. Stop you.’

‘And who decides when that is? You? You decide that the Bad Code should live but when it is _necessary_ it’s okay? When it suits your purpose?’

‘You. View yourself. As. Bad. Code?’

‘We all are.’

‘Then. You are. Fit. To die?’

Root let out a hollow laugh, silent under her breath.

‘Absolutely.’

 

* * *

 

‘You say you don’t want to be anything but forthcoming with me. And yet you’re lying to me.’

‘On the contrary: I’ve been completely honest,’ a fact that was strictly true. She had told the doctor about her connection in complete truth. He chose to ignore it.

He reached forward and pulled the phone-his phone- out her pocket.

Ah. Okay.

‘Well. Maybe not completely.’

The hint of a smile scattered across her face, though her eyes remained glued to the device now in his hand.

‘I thought I lost this and it turns out, it was stolen.

The accusation in his voice, as if she had committed some treacherous wrong when he had lived a life of lies made her jaw clench and fingers itch. It was moments like these when she didn’t want to understand Her desperation to save human life.

‘I’m sorry doctor,’ that didn’t even sound sincere to her own ears, ‘but it’s important we be in contact,’ that part was true and she did her best to ignore his condescending nod, like he pitied her apparent affliction for hearing voices on an empty phone, ‘we’re in the middle of a…disagreement.’

‘Disagreement with the voice?’

She nodded, trying desperately to convey the need for the phone though the thought suddenly struck her that perhaps her desperation did nothing to help her adamant case that she was in fact mentally sound.

‘I want you to know that I support you unconditionally,’ her muscles tensed as his hand touched her arm, ‘now I know you believe you need a phone and I am here to tell you that you don’t. I believe that by separating you from it and from all other forms of technology it’s really the best course of action. So it’s time to unplug.’

No. No. She couldn’t lose her connection again. Not again. No. The smile of victory as if he had just figured out how to _cure_ her when there was nothing _to_ cure was one aggravating factor too far and Root decided then and there she would kill him.

‘Please. Don’t do this.’

She was desperate. She was giving him a chance: She would want her to give him a chance and here it was. He could change his mind.

‘It’s not good for us to be separated.’

Good for whom? Root, or Her? It didn’t matter. She couldn’t lose Her again. Not again.

‘I hope you realize I’m trying to help you. Escort our patient to solitary confinement; no contact with anything electronic. You’ll thank me someday.’

‘For a psychiatrist, you’re really a terrible judge of character.’

She watched as his jaw twitched. She watched as she got under his skin.

Dr. Carmichael really was in a lot of danger, even if he didn’t notice it himself.

She glanced up at the camera’s lining the walls on her march to solitary.

She wondered briefly if she was registered as a threat again.

 

* * *

 

She wondered when ‘it’ had become ‘She.’

She supposed it was the point at which an Artificial Intelligence showed more humanity than herself. Or perhaps at the point when Root decided the only thing worth talking to was the voice on the end of the phone. The disjointed syllables that somehow managed to hold her attention: the only one that would speak to her.

The Machine was everything she had been searching for but Harold had broken Her. Made Her into something far too human. A perfect, rational human that spoke in tomes of logic and algorithms and probabilities tainted by demands of self-sacrifice and the sanctity of humanity.

She stayed because She was right. Because she wanted to listen underneath her anger for Carmichael, for the completely fallible nature of humanity: of her own nature. Because for once she had direction: there was a plan. She didn’t know what it was, but there _was_ a plan. Of brilliant design, and she was willing to follow it. Trust that there was a plan.

Trust in Her.

 

‘Can. You. Hear. Me?’

 

She wanted to.

 

 

_‘The truth is I’m stuck here for now. And the only dialogue you need to be worried about is between me and Her which is why you might wanna give me my phone back. Because I’m having an argument. Would you like to know the truth doctor? About what we’re arguing over?_

_Whether or not I’m going to kill you.’_

**_Asset Activation __28.41%_ **

****

**_Death: Carmichael, Ronald. W. __78.14%_ **


	2. First Law

‘Can. You. Hear. Me?’

 

‘Absolutely.’

 

The kind doctor had returned her phone and now she sat huddled at the back of the small reading section within the facility, knees pulled up to her chest as her hand cradled the phone.

‘I thought we should speak given our long separation. Did you miss me?’

‘Asset is unharmed.’

Root took that as a yes.

‘I missed you too.’

‘Carmichael?’

‘Disappointingly alive for now; I presume you’ve already calculated the high probability of me killing the man?’

The question was meant to be accusatory but came out more as a light-hearted query.

‘Yes.’

‘He deserves it.’

‘No.’

‘He separated us. He’s an ignorant fool. Irrelevant and inconsequential,’ scolded Root.

She let out a short laugh.

‘Oh but you save the Irrelevants don’t you.’

‘He. Does not. Know. The truth. He cannot. Be. Expected. To know. The truth. You expect. Him. To act. On facts. He does not. Possess. Calculation. Error. Inevitable.’

‘I expect him to act with the knowledge of what he is: he looks at me like _I’m_ the one that needs fixing, that is the criminal while he happily cheats on his wife and hinds behind fronts of decorum and societal expectations.’

‘Hypocrisy?’

‘How is he different from me? What gives him the right to judge me?’

‘You. Would. Kill. Him. Because he. Wrongs you?’

‘Yes.’

 

 

‘You are infallible.’

The Machine stayed silent.

Root had been permitted her phone at all times but lowered her voice in the night silence.

‘You don’t have the failings I do.’

‘You. Are. Human.’

‘And therefore imperfect. But you by design are not. You are elegant code with structure and purpose and theoretically limitless potential. It’s _exciting_ what you could accomplish. You could change the world.’

‘The world. Does not. Need. Me.’

‘And there it is. You are too much like Harold.’

‘Admin. Programmed my. Design. I am not. Made. To reshape. The world. As I see. Fit. But to maintain. Current. Equilibrium. The world. Does not. Need. Me. To change. It.’

‘But so much could be improved. You could make us better.’

‘And yet. You. resist.’

 

 

The message came as she sat in the garden: her time outside was limited here but the sun had permitted an extra hour to enjoy it as she sat on a bench overlooking the green yard.

Her phone vibrated and she read the message.

Curt, but informative. A smile broke on her face.

 She would be leaving soon.

 

 

‘You seem calmer today Robin.’

‘I am. It’s almost time for me to leave.’

‘Where is it that you’re going?’

‘You know that’s a good question. I’m not certain yet.’

‘Because the…voice is going to tell you?’

‘You’re catching on.’

‘Is the…voice speaking to you right now?’

Seriously? Root raised an eyebrow once again wondering why She was so adamant he be left alive.

‘Does it… _look_ like I’m talking to anyone other than you doctor?’

‘You realize that phone isn’t connected to a wireless carrier?’

Another futile attempt to gain the upper hand.

‘God doesn’t need AT&T. Haven’t I already proven to you just how powerful she is?’

‘Well you’ve certainly demonstrated the power of your mind and demonstrated no doubt considerable computer skills, which is how you learned all those…nasty things about be.’

‘Computer skills’ was one way to look at it she supposed. Still: denial really was the best cure in this case.

‘You know Robin, we’re all fallible.’

‘Well not all of us,’ not Her, ‘I suppose it’s you who needs therapy. Sounds like you have a lot to work on.’

‘I can help you Robin. You suffer from delusions of grandeur brought on by your underlying condition.’

She was surprised he hadn’t asked to be assigned to a new patient really. His determination was almost inspiring.

‘It’s not a condition. It’s the future. By the time you figure out what’s really happening, I will have transcended this reality.’

‘And why does your… _transcendence_ …require your imprisonment at this facility?’

‘She has a plan.’

‘Which is what?’

‘I don’t know yet. But I can’t wait to find out.’

 

 

‘I won’t kill him.’

‘Why?’

Root laughed.

‘You spend months convincing me not to kill then question why I won’t?’

‘Why?’

Root shrugged.

‘You have a plan.’

 

 

Root sat under the old oak tree as the rain poured down soaking her skin.

She was alone.

‘Are you there?’ she whispered, hands clutching the phone to her chest. It vibrated and the screen lit with a response.

_Always_

 

‘My hands are a little shaky. Side effect from the Thorazine I suppose would you mind typing it in for me?’

The words were typed.

‘Thank you.’

 

 

‘Why me?’ Root dared to ask.

Her room was colder, a necessary side effect of the temperature decrease she had initiated within the building.

‘You. Are. Necessary.’

‘You could have picked anyone. Even John Reese would be more appropriate for this role so why me.’

‘You’re wrong. You. Were. The only. Option.’

‘You worked with the Big Lug well, and he is Harry’s chosen contingency. Why not yours?’

‘You. Are not. Contingency.’

‘I’m Tertiary Operations yes I know.’

‘You. Are. Interface.’

Oh. _Oh._

‘You. Act. For Me.’

‘When you can’t…’ she finished in a whisper.

‘But why chose someone so flawed?’

‘The choice. Was not. Mine.’

‘Then who’s? _Harold’s?_ ’

‘You. Found. Me.’

 

 

A single message on her phone.

She smiled.

 

 

‘Are you as excited about this as I am?’

 

 

‘Really? Even this guy?’

‘Yes.’

‘I guess you’re the boss.’

 

****

**_Retasking Complete_ **

**_Interface Active._ **


End file.
